When my father died
For the third time,
He left behind a backpack

It was dusty and black in the back
Of my mother’s black trunk
It stunk
Of cigarettes, desperation,and neglect
For weeks I had stared at it
Not daring to touch it
Not daring to feel his absence

But today was no ordinary day
Today I felt brave
Today I picked up that old backpack, opened it, and reached inside
My hands stumbled on: old papers,
Wrinkled and adorned with coffee stains,
A rusty kitchen knife,
An unopened package of red pills

I searched and searched that old, dusty, sack—
My eyes skimmed over the  scribble scrabble written upon the papers
My fingertips ran across the dirt-caked
T-shirts
I searched and searched that old, dusty sack
for an “I love her”
for an “I’m sorry”
for a “I tried to call her back”

But I found in that old sack
Useless items that don’t love me back

I looked at that sack,
and it looked at me back,
And I tossed that old sack
without looking back
Cause’ neither did he.